There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,+ For monie a day. XII. For you right rev'rend O As Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Some luckless day. XIII. Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, But King Henry V. + Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakespeare. Alluding to the news-paper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. But first hang out, that she'll discern, Your hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An' large upo' her quarter, Come full that day. XIV. Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, XV. God bless you a'! consider now, An' I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day. THE VISION. DUAN FIRST.* THE sun had clos'd the winter day, To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. The * Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. McPherson's translation, See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of H 2 The thresher's weary flingin tree And whan the day had closed his e'e, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, The auld clay biggin; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin. All in this mottie, misty clime, An' done nae-thing, But stringin blethers up in rhyme For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit My cash-account: While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a' th' amount. I started, I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof! Or some rash aith, That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof When click! the string the snick did draw; And jee! the door gaed to the wa’; An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin bright, Come full in sight. A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token; An' come to stop those reckless vows, Wou'd soon been broken. A hair |